Morse Code
by CoffeeOwl
Summary: A young boy is found burying a body at a crime scene. He sits in the interrogation room, refusing to speak, just tapping his finger on the table. It's a good thing a certain doctor can understand Morse code.
1. A Mystery Tapped Out

"Why the hell is that boy in the interrogation room?" JJ demanded as she neared the group hovering at the two-way mirror.

"He's a suspect as much as he is a witness. We still don't know how he fits into the abduction," Hotch explained briskly.

"You remember the Joe Smith case? It could be the child was used to lure other boys to the van." Prentiss was staring intently at the ten-year old who sat sullenly with his eyes downcast. One arm hugged around his middle, the other rested on the table in front of him, a tiny hand drawing figures of eight onto the surface. "A boy will follow another much more readily than he'd follow an adult. And see his expression? His body language all points to guilt."

"So why isn't someone talking to him? Interrogating him?" A thought occurred to Morgan and his eyebrows rose at the implication. "You're letting him stew there till he cracks?"

"He won't speak to us. He won't even look at us." Rossi turned from the window with his hands in his pockets and walked back to the desk littered with crime scene photos and notes. He bypassed all of this for the coffee machine on the counter at the side of the room.

Reid glanced over from the geographical profile he had been immersed in compiling. Each hand held a marker of a different colour, two more held precariously between his teeth. Capping a lid onto the blue, he set them aside and strolled over to the spot by the window that Rossi had just vacated.

"And if he's just a witness? A potential victim who escaped? He could have been traumatised into silence." JJ didn't like this at all. The boy looked so small in his oversized purple coat, in the intimidating grey room. He looked so much like Henry.

"He was found by the body at the last dump site… shovelling dirt onto the body with his hands." Hotch explained morosely.

"Showing remorse. But it's not like he was the one who put that body there."

"Well he put up a hell of a fight trying to get away from the police when they arrived."

"They had to bring out their guns but it didn't stop him trying to struggle away. Maybe he caught the bluff. No one would shoot a kid. Someone practically had to tackle him to the ground to keep him from breaking loose."

"They've just IDed the kidnapped boy: Charlie Lowe. Went missing two days ago straight out of his backyard. Who called in about the body?"

"The local hardware store owner. He was going to the lake to fish when he saw the blue raincoat. Walked back to the main road to the nearest house, phoned the police, by the time they got there, this little kid had showed up."

"And he didn't say anything? Maybe he can't say anything: could he be deaf? Have learning difficulties?"

"He shouted 'no' when he was arrested. He understood what the police was saying to him, he responded to everything but the guns."

"The profile suggests the unsub is a deranged man, in his early 40s, who suffered abuse at the hands of others – possibly his father – and is now exacting revenge on the world, right? Could this be his son?"

"So accomplice? Or victim?"

"The unsub could have been recreating his own abuse with his son. We said he probably has a mental disorder, maybe he thinks that that's just the way fathers and sons interact in normal society."

Garcia left her laptop on the table to join the others at the one-way mirror. _That poor boy,_ she uttered. Rossi lowered the cup of coffee from his lips and grimaced. "This is all great, kids. The profile's _finally_ fitting together. But it would really help if we had a _name_."

Throughout this exchange, Reid had remained quiet. He was watching the boy, watching his little hand reaching out through the purple sleeve like a frail animal crawling out of a wide cave. The tentative movements had changed from figures of eight to nervous tapping.

Without a word, Reid walked past the rest of the team and opened the door to the interrogation room. No one objected. Frankly, they didn't know what they were supposed to do next with the boy who wouldn't talk. They watched with intrigue as Reid sat down opposite the boy. He didn't walk with measured steps; he didn't sit into the posture of either good cop or bad cop. He took his seat and continued to stare at the boy, as if he had only walked into the room to have a closer look. The silence remained as heavy as it was after the scraping of the chair against the hardwood floor.

It was like a staring contest; Reid against the boy, the boy against the table top. Outside, no one spoke for a minute, all watching the silent exchange. The for a minute more, they discussed the likelihood of success of a stare-down.

"Well if Reid was hoping to intimidate a person into talking just by glaring at them long enough, it would really have to be a child, wouldn't it?"

For another minute there was silence on both sides of the glass, then one side shifted through the motions of an impromptu coffee break. They didn't miss anything; when they reconvened around the window, with mugs in hand, Reid was still sitting there, watching the boy. But now an odd half-smile lit his face up as it always did when he solved some mystery.

_Taaap tap tap tap tap… taaap taaap taaap taaap tap…_

The smile stretched a little further. The boy's finger had stopped its strange motions for a moment. At last the heavy silence was broken, by a sound that was almost a laugh, escaping helplessly from Reid's mouth. "Eight thousand, two hundred and sixty-nine?" He whispered it in a tone he used for working through puzzles, more for himself than for the boy. But the boy stopped midway through the next string of taps.

"What did he say?" Morgan enquired on the other side of the window. More silence.

Reid stretched his own hand out onto the table. It hovered uncertainly for a moment before it let loose its own rapping; hollow sounds quicker and more agitated than the boy's.

_Taap taap taap taptap. Taptap taap taap taap. Taap taap taptaptap. Taptaptap taap taap._

The boy didn't raise his eyes from the table, but the same skewed smile tugged at the corner of his own mouth. Reid had stopped tapping. It was the boy's turn to respond.

_Taaap taaap taaap tap tap. Tap tap taaap taaap taaap. Taaap taaap taaap tap tap. Taaap taaap taaap taaap tap._

The team watched the odd exchange in silence. Morse code. They were all thinking it. They stared in fascination, as if watching two exotic creatures in a zoo. Reid rapped out another string of language. Then the boy.

"You like math?"

The boy paused for a moment before tapping out his response.

"You _understand_ it," Reid murmured. It wasn't so much for the benefit of the people on the other side of the glass, so much as it was for the benefit of the boy; so he'd know Reid understood _him_. He remained pensively quiet for a moment, considering his next line of questioning. "I've always loved it. It makes sense. It's consistent… most of the time, anyway. People…" He suddenly felt very self-conscious, but this was for the sake of connecting with their victim/witness, find out how he fit into this mess. "People change their minds, act unpredictably, say things they don't mean… there's so much I don't understand about them, that I'll never understand" He paused. "Where did you learn four-digit primes from?" Reid asked with a hint of admiration in his voice.

…

"Your mother's a professor of mathematics?" Without the need for any instruction, Garcia began to investigate records and cross-correlate professor with autistic son. "Are you two close?"

Another pause. "When did she die?" he asked sadly.

…

"_Two months_," he murmured to himself. "I'm sorry. It must have been very hard on you." Beyond the glass, his team overheard the two words and were now discussing the stressor. "How did she die?"

… … …

"How did your dad take it?"

…

Reid gathered his thoughts for a moment before resuming the conversation. He spoke slower, carefully changing the subject. "You know, the thing about maths is its consistency. There's comfort in numbers. Whenever I get frustrated or nervous, I count to ten in my head." He cleared his throat before continuing. "Backwards. From three-hundred. All the triangular numbers in between." He couldn't see them, but he was on the receiving end of a variety of looks ranging from affectionate smirk to a roll of the eyes. "What makes you recite prime numbers in your head?"

The boy's eyes rose up from the table but still refused to meet with Reid's. Tap tap tap, like the slow, definitive leaking of a faucet.

Reid's brows furrowed. "Why, what makes you feel that way?"

With a nervous clenching of his jaw, the boy tapped out his lengthy response.

Silence.

Now it was Reid who couldn't raise his eyes from the table.

"I know how that feels. The world can be a cruel place. And people understand _you_ as little as you understand _them_. But there's nothing wrong with being different. It's what makes you special, unique, human." The boy clenched his jaw again. "Things get better. You'll find adults are more considerate. Children can be the cruellest of all; I've learned that lesson many times over…" The boy had started tapping part way through Reid's sentence, tapping with a fierce resolution of thought.

Whereas a second ago, Reid struggled to bring his eyes onto the boy, now he couldn't pull them away. There was a glimmer of horror awakening in his eyes. He listened intently to the boy's words, trying to make sense of them a step beyond the initial recognition of the language.

"He shouldn't have done that, he had no right. It was cruel and despicable, and not something anyone should have to put up with…"

The boy's response shook him.

When finally he spoke, his voice sounded rattled, lacking the certainty and placating tone it held before. "No one deserves that. I know you understand that much."

More tapping.

"Your father… What did he do?"

… … …

A shocked silence. "No one deserves that," he repeated firmly. "They're just children. You're just children."

_A furious tap tap tap, like fierce brushstrokes of angry colours._

"So you left home. And the boys? The ones after that? You went back and buried him. His name was Charlie."

Silence. More tapping.

"But why?"

Tapping.

"His name was Charlie. He has a mom and a dad who love him very much," Reid's voice had a steady, soft quality to it. "He liked to read comics, play in the park with his dog, make up funny poems, play word games, sing songs with his little sister… She'll have to grow up without him. She'll miss him every single day. He had a life; he wasn't just a…" - he couldn't bring himself to say the words – "a _piece of meat_ for someone else's amusement. He didn't deserve _punishment_. He was just a little boy. You're both just little boys…"

A steady tap tap response that visibly sent shivers down Reid's spine. His eyes widened a fraction. When the boy had finished his reply, there was a long stunned silence.

"Someone will come take care of you in a few minutes," he told the boy blankly before standing up and slowly vacating the room. It took a good bit of willpower not to emphasise '_take care' _with the most disgusted tone of voice he had. He wore a dazed expression when he stepped back into the observation room, and for a moment none of the conversation ("When I get my hands on that _father _of his…") floating around registered with him. Then it all crashed down on him and the words pulled him back into the moment, stirring up a heap of confusion.

"-poor boy, I could just scoop him up into a big hug and shower him with all the affection that-"

"What?" Reid exclaimed a little breathlessly.

If Hotch heard him, he didn't act on it. He just turned to the laptop on the table that Garcia had set aside when she went to watch Reid's exchange with the boy. "We have the father's name: Stanley Turner, local librarian. It doesn't say anything about him having a mental disorder. As far as the records are concerned, it was a perfectly ordinary family. The mother, Claire, died in a car accident on the 2nd of March when a drunk driver ploughed into the driver-side of the vehicle. That's pretty much all the information we have on file in these poorly-maintained records, but it lists an address about twenty minutes from here, in a sparsely populated area west of the town, by the side of Marke's Lake. We'll send in the local police to-"

"Stanley Turner's dead," Reid interrupted. This jolted Hotch midsentence, but a quirk of an eyebrow was the only sign of surprise his face betrayed. The rest of the team were a little more expressive with their astonishment. "You were right, Rossi, that the profile felt off. We have our unsub right here." He gestured towards the window with a nod of his head. The boy beyond it still sat in that same position, his face as blank as ever. Reid blinked hard, shook his head then laughed at himself in a breathless, slightly angry way. "I thought I had found a kindred spirit or something in him," he murmured helplessly, before scratching at his arm and averting his gaze. "If you'll excuse me for a moment." He smiled stiffly then ducked out of the observation room leaving his team to process the shock.

Inside the interrogation room, the little hand had emerged once more from the purple sleeve and resumed its recitation.


	2. Transcript of Interrogation

**Transcript of Interrogation of:**

**Peter Turner**

**Thursday, May 2, 2013**

_Note: P. Turner's responses translated from Morse code. Initial conversation: exchanges of prime numbers._

* * *

PETER TURNER: _8269_

DR REID: "Eight thousand, two hundred and sixty-nine?" _[Taap taap taap taptap. Taptap taap taap taap. Taap taap taptaptap. Taptaptap taap taap.]_

PETER TURNER: _[Taaap taaap taaap tap tap. Tap tap taaap taaap taaap. Taaap taaap taaap tap tap. Taaap taaap taaap taaap tap.]_

…

DR REID: "You like math?"

PETER TURNER: _I understand it._

DR REID: "You _understand_ it. … I've always loved it. It makes sense. It's consistent… most of the time, anyway. People… People change their minds, act unpredictably, say things they don't mean… there's so much I don't understand about them, that I'll never understand … Where did you learn four-digit primes from?"

PETER TURNER: _My mother's a professor._

DR REID: "Your mother's a professor of mathematics? Are you two close?"

PETER TURNER: _She's dead._

…

DR REID: "When did she die?"

PETER TURNER: _March 2__nd__. 5:35pm._

DR REID: "_Two months_… I'm sorry. It must have been very hard on you. … How did she die?"

PETER TURNER: _Half inside the car, half outside. My seatbelt was stuck. I watched her die. The man in the truck died. I was fine._

DR REID: "How did your dad take it?"

PETER TURNER: _He wasn't in the car._

…

DR REID: "You know, the thing about maths is its consistency. There's comfort in numbers. Whenever I get frustrated or nervous, I count to ten in my head. _[cough]_ Backwards. From three-hundred. All the triangular numbers in between. … What makes you recite prime numbers in your head?"

PETER TURNER: _Anger._

DR REID: "Why, what makes you feel that way?"

PETER TURNER: _Other people. They treat me like a piece of meat. Like I'm stupid. Like I don't belong. They mock me. They hurt me. I don't understand why._

...

DR REID: "I know how that feels. The world can be a cruel place. And people understand _you_ as little as you understand _them_. But there's nothing wrong with being different. It's what makes you special, unique, human. … Things get better. You'll find adults are more considerate. Children can be the cruellest of all; I've learned that lesson many times over…"

PETER TURNER: _On February 10__th__, Michael Evans stole my bag. Tore open every book and wrote 'retard' on the pages. He and two others beat me, then he carved 'retard' onto my arm with a Swiss Army knife._

DR REID: "He shouldn't have done that, he had no right. It was cruel and despicable, and not something anyone should have to put up with…"

PETER TURNER: _The cruel deserve to be punished. They're not human. They're just meat. It wasn't supposed to be fatal, but the knife wouldn't stop._

…

DR REID: "No one deserves that. I know you understand that much."

PETER TURNER: _The cruel deserve to be punished... And the weak. My father._

DR REID: "Your father… What did he do?"

PETER TURNER: _Evans floated. Father found him, found the blood on my clothes. Buried him. Buried the others too. Fletcher's death was the slowest. Miller wouldn't stop begging. I cut out his tongue and then he cried. Choked on blood. He deserved it._

…

DR REID: "No one deserves that… They're just children. You're just children."

PETER TURNER: _Adults are worse. They're all suspicious. They all judge me. They take more stabs to finish. Thirty-seven… Forty-one… My father buried them, said I'd be punished if they were found. They deserved it and he said _I'd _be punished. He tried to punish me. He was weak. The knife stabbed him too._

DR REID: "So you left home. And the boys? The ones after that? You went back and buried him. His name was Charlie."

…

PETER TURNER: _… I didn't know his name. But he deserved it._

DR REID: "But why?"

PETER TURNER: _He wouldn't stop looking at me. He was just a piece of meat. The knife stabbed him twenty-three times. He deserved it. It felt good._

DR REID: "His name was Charlie. He has a mom and a dad who love him very much. He liked to read comics, play in the park with his dog, make up funny poems, play word games, sing songs with his little sister… She'll have to grow up without him. She'll miss him every single day. He had a life; he wasn't just a… a _piece of meat_ for someone else's amusement. He didn't deserve _punishment_. He was just a little boy. You're both just little boys…"

PETER TURNER: _Then he can be a little boy forever._

…

DR REID: "Someone will come take care of you in a few minutes."

* * *

**End transcript**


End file.
